Dusk came early in the village.
The sun had barely begun its descent when the air thickened, light turning coppery and heavy, as though the sky itself were bruising. Mihir noticed it while standing in the courtyard, notebook tucked under his arm, eyes drawn again—against his will—toward the forest edge.
The banyan's silhouette darkened first.
Its canopy swallowed the fading light, leaves overlapping until they formed a single, breathing mass. Mihir felt it in his chest before he heard it—a slow pressure, a subtle tightening that made his next breath deeper than it should have been.
"Step back."
Arjun's voice cut through the moment, low and firm.
Mihir startled. "I was just—"
"You were listening," Arjun said, already moving closer. He placed himself between Mihir and the forest without hesitation, broad shoulders blocking the view entirely. "I told you not to do that."
Mihir bristled reflexively. "I'm not a child."
Arjun turned then, gaze sharp in a way Mihir hadn't seen before. "And I'm not scolding you."
The distinction mattered.
Arjun reached out—not touching, but close enough that Mihir felt the cold of him against his forearm.
"You shouldn't be alone at dusk," Arjun said. "Not anymore."
The words settled heavily between them.
"Since when?" Mihir asked.
Arjun's eyes flicked briefly to the banyan, then back. "Since last night."
Mihir's pulse jumped. He remembered the shared dream too clearly—heat, proximity, restraint stretched thin as wire.
"That doesn't explain anything," Mihir said, though his voice had softened.
"It explains enough."
From the outer path came the sound of footsteps.
Mihir turned to see the tea stall owner approaching, carrying a bundle of firewood. He slowed when he spotted them together, eyes narrowing slightly.
"Evening," the man said, voice cautious.
Arjun inclined his head politely.
The man did not look at him again.
Instead, his gaze lingered on Mihir—assessing, troubled. "You shouldn't be out so late."
"It's barely sunset," Mihir replied.
"That's late enough," the man muttered. He hesitated, then added, "Ojha says the boundary thins faster for some people."
"Some people?" Mihir asked.
"People the land remembers," the man said, then hurried away without waiting for a response.
Mihir exhaled slowly.
"They're watching me," he said.
Arjun's mouth curved faintly. "They always have."
"That's not comforting."
"No," Arjun agreed. "It's useful."
They walked toward the side verandah, where oil lamps had already been lit despite the lingering light. The servants' quarters nearby buzzed faintly with activity—two women from the village had come to clean in the late afternoon, murmuring prayers as they worked.
One of them, a middle-aged woman with thick bangles and wary eyes, glanced up as Mihir passed.
She stiffened.
Without breaking stride, she reached out and pressed her thumb briefly to Mihir's wrist, smearing a faint line of turmeric there.
"For balance," she whispered urgently. "Don't let him take the left side."
Before Mihir could ask who she meant, she withdrew and hurried away.
Mihir stared at his wrist.
Arjun noticed.
His fingers closed gently—but decisively—around the same spot.
"Don't accept markings without understanding them," he said quietly.
His touch lingered just long enough to make Mihir's breath catch.
"You touched me first," Mihir said before he could stop himself.
Arjun's eyes darkened.
"Yes," he said. "Because I know what claims feel like."
They stopped beneath the verandah roof. The lamps cast warm halos that softened the hard lines of Arjun's face, shadows pooling beneath his cheekbones, at the hollow of his throat.
Mihir became acutely aware of the space between them. Too small. Charged.
"What happens at dusk?" Mihir asked.
Arjun's gaze slid to his mouth again, just briefly. "Things decide whether they're invited."
Mihir's skin prickled. "And am I inviting them?"
Arjun stepped closer.
"Not consciously," he said. "That's worse."
From the forest came a rustle—closer than before. Leaves brushing against bark. Roots shifting beneath soil.
A woman screamed.
It was distant, brief, cut off too quickly.
Mihir tensed. "That came from—"
"The eastern path," Arjun said immediately. "She strayed too far."
Mihir turned sharply. "We should help."
Arjun's hand shot out, gripping Mihir's wrist firmly this time.
"No."
The force of it shocked Mihir into stillness.
Arjun leaned in, voice low, urgent. "Listen to me. This is not your role."
"What if someone's hurt?"
Arjun's grip tightened—not painfully, but possessively.
"She isn't," he said. "She was warned."
Mihir stared at him, something cold and hot twisting together in his chest. "You sound certain."
"I am."
Silence fell between them, thick and electric.
Mihir realized suddenly that he was breathing faster, pulse racing—not just from fear, but from the way Arjun stood so close, from the way his thumb pressed into the sensitive inside of Mihir's wrist.
"You're enjoying this," Mihir accused softly.
Arjun did not deny it.
"I enjoy knowing where you are," he said. "I enjoy that you listen."
Mihir's voice dropped. "And if I didn't?"
Arjun's smile was slow. Dangerous.
"Then I would still come for you."
The honesty of it stole Mihir's breath.
From the village came the sound of bells ringing—short, sharp, deliberate. Sandhya arati. Evening prayers meant to seal the day.
Arjun finally released him.
"Inside," he said. "Now."
Mihir obeyed.
As the door closed behind them, shutting out the forest's breath, Mihir realized something with a jolt that made his stomach flip.
He felt safer with Arjun between him and the dark.
And he wasn't sure when that had started to feel like want.